A Febrile Drowning
by Stamper Comma Leland
Summary: It's true, in a lot of ways. They are odd birds. Not everyone goes around questioning dogs about the heinous acts of their spouse, nor do they go around adopting ailing conmen as their surrogate children. [Or, Neal is sad and sick. Peter and El take care of him.]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Found this in my files from early last year. Haha. I can't write like this anymore, but I'll try to continue it if there's any interest. Also: There's this story I wrote on a different account called **Big Hats, Long Ties** (it's about de-aged Neal, I got around two chapters in and apparently couldn't anymore, although I guess I could try again) Anyway, that story I think borrowed a line from this fic because I think I gave up on this pretty early on, too. I think the line was this :"the con got lost in the smoke and sorrow of a plane on fire burning all his love away." Haha. Just so you guys don't think I was plagiarizing anything. Anywho. Hope you enjoy this.

* * *

Neal Caffrey is a man without an umbrella.

If the rain wasn't coming down in king-sized comforters, this wouldn't be a problem, but it is and here Neal is: standing on a mostly-vacated Manhattan sidewalk at one o'clock in the morning. Without an umbrella.

Now why is Neal here? Nobody knows. Not even Neal knows. You'd think he'd find some clarity with his hair plastered to his head, his body shivering with the chill of a New York downpour, but you'd be wrong. There's nothing clear in this black ocean and its attempts to drown the city in one fell swoop, it's just that same darkness he woke up in, blinking and scrubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, his head filled with the haze of fire and smoke and Kate. He stood up from his bed, goose down comforter dripping to the floor, somehow managed to fall into a few rumpled clothes from the hamper (rumpled, but tasteful, mind you, and still as sweet-smelling as Neal from dawn til dusk and through again,) and walked out of June's house trying to forget everything he'd ever known. He tried, and he's still trying.

He tries to forget the tricks, his nimble fingers, the feel of leather freshly-sneaked from some poor chump's pocket. He tries to forget the satisfaction of a con gone right, the warm swell of pride in his chest with his eyes drifting over priceless aged paint, catching in the smooth or awkward strokes, whatever they may be it doesn't matter because it's brilliant and it's beautiful and Neal owns the hands that thieved it. Neal has clever hands.

They used to smooth over her naked sides and her eyes were beauty, bright and blue and full of something Neal decided must be love. He used to breathe in deep at the sight of her, his breath caught in his throat, and he forgets himself, breathes in deep now, tries to catch her again in this storm, but she's gone.

She's gone and when he breathes now, he's sure he can smell her burning.

The water sloshes his face as he gasps for breath, the phantom pressure of Peter's hands on his arms pulling him back to reality. On the sidewalk. At one o'clock in the morning.

Rain. No umbrella. Right.

What is he doing out here again? He shifts in his expensive shoes, blinks, and tries to come up with something justifiable, something that's not deep or angst-ridden, something that just is. Something that has to do with nothing, because it's starting to feel like everything has to do with nothing. He came into the world crying for nothing but his mother's lies about a dirty father, the roots of knowledge of women's deception but Kate always seemed so real until she wasn't a girl anymore, but the world. And now she's gone and the world is gone with her and here Neal is, standing unprotected from this downpour that must be non-existent because Kate is dead and Kate was the world so the world is dead, too. All this? The sidewalk under his feet, the city lights in his eyes, yellow taxis hydroplaning down the asphalt – tricks. Neal understands tricks. Sometimes he thinks he invented them.

He shakes his head. Droplets fly from the tips of his hair. He wraps his arms around his body because that's enough of this. Introspection is a cracked road that ends dead and he's done, he can feel the chill in his bones from thought and cold and wet, and it's time now. It's time to go the hell home.

* * *

"Hon?"

El is making something delicious and unpretentious in the kitchen. Peter sniffs the air appreciatively, shuffles into the warm room in one shoe and one sock, looping his tie on the way.

She glances up from the stove. He sees a spot of blue as she throws him a quick glance, the splash of white teeth as she smiles.

"Morning, hon," she says. "How was your shower?"

"Lonely," Peter replies frankly. Because it was. And while yes, in general, the shower is for hygiene and the morning is for breakfast, El is beautiful and life is chaotic and time is lost. They're going to need to find it again, and soon. "Hey, you seen my left shoe anywhere?"

She raises one eyebrow, smirks. "No. How did you lose one shoe?"

Peter half shrugs. He tugs the last knot into his tie, his eyes skimming over the bacon in the pan as the barest hint of a thought skitters through his brain that maybe, just maybe, his luck is evening out this morning. "Maybe Satch took it."

He can practically hear El's eyes narrowing in mock outrage.

"You keep those accusations to yourself, mister. Satch is a good boy."

A happy thumping in the corner lures Peter's eyes across the floor, to where their only child is happily wagging his yellow tail against the kitchen tiles. Peter snorts. El coos.

"Aren't you a good boy, Satchmo? Yes you are. Don't you worry, baby, Daddy was just getting you mixed up with Neal."

Hey.

"Neal did not-"

El cuts him off with an incredulous look. Peter snaps his mouth shut and takes a moment to realize how utterly insane his instant attestation that Neal Caffrey did _not_ steal something truly was. "Okay, yeah, maybe he did."

Not that he really thinks Neal stole his left shoe, but he knows better than to completely omit the theory by now. Neal's capable of thieving almost anything, be it priceless art or what's left of Peter's sanity. Hell knows the kid's stolen a boatload of time already.

Time. And the most reluctant of gruff affections.

"How's he doing, anyway?" El asks softly as Peter slumps against the countertop.

"Oh, he's on top of the world when there are eyes on him." The words spill from his mouth like print from a book because that's what Peter is around El. He's an open tome waiting for her deft fingers to turn his next page. "When he doesn't know anyone's looking…" Peter trails off. He doesn't need to go on. She's got the rest in her head already. _Different story_.

Neal's a master at his crafts, a master of art and thievery, both of which require skilled and capable hands. It's the original story, the one Peter chased and caught. Twice.

Now it's the story of a kid who shakes when he's alone, trembling fingers, glazed eyes, sadness in the slope of his shoulders when he lets himself breathe out. The others don't see it, even if they know it, but Peter sees and knows how Neal works. And Peter was there when it was all blown to Hell, when the con got lost in the smoke and sorrow of a plane on fire burning everything away, when the air cleared and there was nothing left but a boy in a man's body, fingers digging into Peter's jacket, eyes bright blue and rimmed red and desperately fighting to maintain that disbelief.

"He should come over for dinner tonight," El says, and the memory crumbles away in the smell of the plated bacon she sets in his hands, the warm kiss she places on his head. "Tell him if he gives your shoe back he can have dessert, too."

Peter realizes then, as he does every time he looks at his wife, that his luck doesn't need to balance itself out. He has El. His luck is already as high as apple pie in the sky.

* * *

There's a buzzing that doesn't end. Neal isn't sure where he is, all he knows is that it's dark and warm and he's having slight difficulty breathing. He feels closed in. His arms feel heavy. He tries to hold them up, tries to reach for the cool steel bars of his cell because that's where he is, that's where he has to be, that's the last place he felt like this, like he was locked up and locked away and his brain may or may not be going somewhat dead.

He can't move them, though, so he just groans, and shifts his aching body on the soft cot…

Soft. First clue.

The rest comes tumbling down like dominoes: the buzzing stops; there's a cool, aged hand, coarse from years and soft from lotion, gentle on his forehead. Neal's ankle itches.

"Neal, honey, you're burning up." June's voice is awash with concern. "Can you open your eyes, darling?"

Neal cracks his eyes open. They're sleep encrusted, and he's quick to slap a hand over them lest June see him so naturally out of sorts.

She tisks and the kid gloves are full on when she pulls his hand away. It feels like seconds later, the cool washcloth dabbing at his face, the soft, melodic voice asking where he might have gotten this – whatever this is - from.

"Dunno," Neal's voice is hoarse and his throat hurts, and he's lying to June. The washcloth halts in its ministrations before starting back up, slower this time, as if thinking about its next move.

Neal isn't fond of the idea of inanimate objects held by mother figures strategizing.

"Were you out in the rain last night?" Her voice is crisp. Neal groans and winces. "You were," she says. "You got yourself wet and sick."

Wet and sick. Now he's dry and sick and not quite in prison. _Not quite_ being the key words. "I'm alright, June," he tries to assure her, in a voice like a frog's croak. "See?" And he makes to get up only for her to cluck her tongue and push him back down again.

"I'm calling Peter," she says, one hand still on his chest, the other reaching for the phone on the bedside table.

Neal abruptly attempts to rise again, only to be forced back down. June may be in her later years, may be a small woman, delicate and still in full possession of her feminine wiles, but she's also spry. She's really damn spry and Neal's flat on his back on the bed, coughing up a storm.

"Why?" he asks when the coughing finally relents. His throat is raw and aching. And he's whining. He doesn't know why, but he's whining: "I didn't even _do_ anything."

Her laugh is incredulous, and the phone is already ringing. Neal can hear the soft sound coming from the earpiece, can hear Peter's voice on the other line, short and to the point as he picks up: "Burke."

"Peter, it's June…"

And the conversation goes on. Neal blinks tiredly and listens to it, lays there with the warm weight of June's hand on his chest as she explains that she's going to be out of town for the week, that Neal is sick and she won't be here to care for him, but she needs to know that someone will do it or she won't go, can't go. Not if…

Neal quickly finds that straining to hear the other side of the conversation causes a pounding in his fevered head. He sinks back into his pillow, breathes congested breaths as June's hand absently rubs, as his eyes grow heavy and the thumping in his head quiets down. As he turns to the light behind his lids, tries to find the dark, reaches for sleep…

"Neal?"

Blue eyes fly open. Peter's cold hand is palming his jaw, his neck, searching for something it's already found.

"Jeez," Peter says. "He's a furnace."

Neal's a furnace, a furnace that shakes with chills as its helped out of bed. June excuses herself and leaves the apartment lest she bare witness to Neal's achingly slow motions of undress, of Peter helping him into a fresh t-shirt and a black hooded sweatshirt, into the jeans Neal never wears because Neal is too tired, is the dead weight of a slumped body against Peter as the agent hikes them over the conman's hips and fastens them with the awkward movements of any straight, childless man in such a situation.

"You're coming home with me," Peter tells him, and that reminds Neal. Reminds him that he's a grown man, and a prideful one at that regardless of any recent jeans-applications handled by Peter.

Or he was.

"But I didn't," Neal whines, tucking his hot head into Peter's neck, ignoring that distant voice calling through that distant door in his distant brain, asking _what are you doing?_

He feels a tentative hand pat his back. "You didn't what, buddy?" Peter asks, but it's serious, his voice. Like he really wants to know not what Neal didn't do, but what he did. Allegedly.

"Do _any_thing," Neal replies, and somewhere he knows that Peter's a little disappointed that this wasn't one of his drugged confessions, complete with ingenious strategy and a tap on the head, a smirk, and a "Think about it." Neal can't think about anything right now, other than that he doesn't deserve it, any of it, because he didn't do anything. Nothing that earned him a dead girl in a burning plane, or a potential weeklong trip to his handler's house, a watchful affair sure to be filled with rules that Neal can't keep unbroken, nor Peters and Els who Neal can't keep pleased.

"I didn't do anything," he repeats softly, and to his far-away horror, a tear slips out the corner of his eye and soaks into the crook of Peter's neck.

"Shhh," Peter says, and that uncomfortable hand on Neal's back turns smooth and gentle, like it knows something. Or a lot of things. Maybe everything.


	2. Chapter 2

It may be only by a few degrees, but Brooklyn feels colder to Peter. It must feel colder to Neal, too, because as soon as he gets the kid out of car, Neal reverts back to that same dead weight he was in the apartment, slumping against Peter's side, searching for warmth he ordinarily wouldn't seek in someone deemed by Mozzie as "an emotionally-vacant vessel of the federal law."

"Got the chills?" Peter asks, sympathetic as he awkwardly pats the conman's arm with his free hand. "El's gonna get you in a blanket and fix you some of that sleepytime tea both of you like so much. Warm you right up."

Neal turns his head, blinks enormous feverish eyes at Peter. "I don't recall s-saying anything," he says, his teeth chattering, "about l-liking sleepytime tea."

He didn't? He didn't. Neal has never so much as mentioned sleepytime tea in Peter's presence, but somewhere in this past year Peter came to the conclusion that if El likes something, Neal must like it, too - be it that fancypants food they both prefer, or that so-called "art" Peter just doesn't get, or overpriced wine, whatever. Sometimes, even, in the situations in which Neal's behavior has pressured – no, not simply pressured, but _forced_ Peter to feel and act like his own father, Peter would spur his way through the given instance by sucking in a breath, gritting his teeth, and lying to himself, telling himself that Neal was _El's_ problem. Did it make sense? No. But when he managed to look at Neal for a long enough amount of time without wanting to wring his neck, he would focus in on the laser-like quality of Neal's blue eyes and his dark-enough hair, and simply decide that all of these things about the kid that weren't like Peter, were actually like El. Therefore, any law-mangling mischief? El. All El. Kid got that from El.

El just has adult-levels of impulse control and a directionally capable moral compass and all those things Neal lacks, that's all. She had a steady childhood with parents who did all the right things. If the universe had deemed it differently, Peter's wife could have very well turned out to be a criminal genius, and a damn good one at that.

As it is, though, El is smart and law-abiding, trusting and compassionate. And she likes sleepytime tea - as will this shivering mess, rattling against Peter's side like an earthquake in human form.

Peter says, "Well, you will. You'll like it." And he puts his arm around the kid's waist, helps him up the porch steps, tries to ignore the worry pinching his insides, because it's going to be okay. He knows it is because the door opens before they even reach it and there's El, her arms out to take Neal from him, to usher him inside and sit him down on the couch. Peter has barely managed to blink twice, and her hands are all over Neal's flushed face, and she's saying, "He's _boiling, _Peter. Did you take his temperature?"

All it takes is one look at his guilty expression, and she sighs, brushes Neal's sweaty hair back from his face as the young man quietly interjects, "C-cold, Elizabeth."

There's an afghan on the back of the couch, and El is quick about getting it around Neal's shoulders, rubbing her hands up and down his now-blanketed arms to aid the warming process along, then like it's nothing, like she does this every single day, she pushes Neal down onto the couch until he's horizontal before going for his shoes. Peter can do nothing but stand there like an open-mouthed fish, amazed at the efficient, but empathetic way in which she's capable of dealing with this ailing human being.

It took him months just to give the kid a pat on the head. And Neal was _drugged_ then.

He swallows, because the sensation inside him now is an odd one, and he's not entirely sure why he's feeling a hot river of jealousy mixing with that warm rush of love and admiration he always has for his wife, or why his mind has gone back to the plane, back to that moment when the world was fire and smoke and ash, a girl burning down to bones and teeth, and Peter with his arms around Neal, pulling him back from that death sentence he was desperate to run into. When the totality of Neal Caffrey's world had burned down to a suitcase and Peter Burke.

Neal's mind must be lingering on the same thing, because there are silent tears leaking onto the arm of the couch.

"I'll go get the thermometer," Peter says, and leaves El to brush those tears away.

* * *

Neal hates doctors and their cold hands, the way they prod at his body without forewarning or consent. And this one, one of the FBI's most beloved physicians, Dr. _Herman _(a pediatrician for chrissakes, the only one who could see him on such short notice) just grabbed his throat like he was about to choke him to death.

"Sorry," Dr. Herman chuckles when Neal's eyes enlarge to the size of dinner plates, his frigid thumb unmoving from Neal's throat. "Sometimes we forget to warn you. They say doctors are-"

"Predatory creatures?" Neal croaks.

Dr. Herman nods, finally removes his thumb. "Well, aggressive, anyway. Lay on your back for me."

And it proceeds from there, Neal squirming and gritting his teeth while Dr. Herman Herman (or so the man has become filed under in Neal's internal directory) pokes and prods at his stomach with his freezing digits, feeling for inflamed organs or some such nonsense.

_I want Elizabeth, _Neal almost says a million times because Elizabeth was the one who brought him here after Peter went in to work. She took a hold of his wrist before he was led to the back to be defiled by the hands of Herman Herman, leaned in and asked him in a soft, sweet-smelling breath if he wanted her to come back with him.

And, of course, in the first adult move he had made all morning, Neal had replied with a smile and a half-hearted, "I think I've got it, Elizabeth." Even though he doesn't. He doesn't have it at all. He hasn't had it, or anything since before…

But he doesn't want to think about that again. He doesn't want an ocean lurching down his cheeks, for Herman Herman to think that he's mentally-deficient and that's why he was brought here by a beautiful woman with a maternal air. It doesn't help that when he came out into the waiting room, the doctor witnessed Neal with his head dropped onto Elizabeth's shoulder, burying his feverish skin into the coolness of her neck, like an adult child who never quite cut the apron strings. All that was missing was his thumb in his mouth, that thankless vice of twenty-years-gone that gave him nothing but a gap in his teeth and a bruised ego.

"I've never treated any Burkes before," Herman Herman murmurs, his hands pressing firmly down on Neal's kidneys.

"They don't have any kids," Neal grunts, and tries not to squirm away under the uncomfortable pressure.

"Except for you," Herman Herman says, his eyes twinkling behind his spectacles.

"Except for me," Neal agrees. His eyes are growing heavy from his supine position, his head filling with fog. He's in no mood to argue that neither is he a child, nor is he a child of a suit and his wife. Besides, maybe he'll get a sucker out of it. "If that means I get a sucker on the way out, I'll take it." An image of Peter flits through his mind, a stern look in his eyes, but his mouth going in all sorts of directions, unable to set on an emotion. "A green one, please." _For old time's sake._

Herman Herman gives him a green sucker on his way out. Neal pockets it, blinks slowly at his instructions on how to treat his fever, doesn't argue when the doctor repeats them to Elizabeth, who slides her arm around his waist and leads him out of the building, making him promises of sleepytime tea and the sleep that follows.


	3. Chapter 3

Neal wakes up on the couch, perspiring, limbs aching, feeling the heat of the afghan pooled at his feet. He moans, wrenches blue eyes open to see the half-empty mug of Goodnight Grape-flavored sleepytime tea still on the coffee table. His palms are sweating, and when he swallows, its like razorblades dripping down his throat.

Night has fallen outside – the room is gently lit with lamps and the crisp sounds of cooking are coming from the kitchen. Two voices speaking in hushed tones, one deeper than the other, a tinkling laugh. These are the sounds that pervade the air. Happy sounds.

The groan he emits as he plants his feet on the hardwood floor turns quickly into a raw and painful bout of coughing, and Neal thinks for the first time in his pretty existence, that he is too miserable of a thing for such a beautiful place. There's love here, a love that Neal longs for but can't grasp. His mind is muddled in an everywhere, in memories far off and far gone but still very much inside of him, composing him, making him who he is now and forever: a perpetual lie, an anything in any given situation. Right now, Neal is the dust in the corner of an otherwise clean home. He is most likely infectious and Peter and El, they're whole and healthy and could use nothing less than this boy in a man's body coughing disease and misery up all over their furniture.

He stalks silently to the door against protesting limbs and opens it as quietly as he can. The air is cold and mist-ridden, and Neal shivers against it even as it soothes his hot skin. He makes it halfway down the walk before he feels a hand on his shoulder, before he swallows a scream, and whirls around, his heart beating a symphony against his ribs as Peter's stern eyes bore into him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Peter demands, even as his expression softens because Neal knows. He knows he must look like an ashen-faced kitten in the faint glow of the Brooklyn lamps and he knows how pathetic that is, but he stutters out a "I was j-just going…" and trails off because he doesn't know where he was going, just knows he was going somewhere away.

"…Back in the house," Peter supplies, because Peter's good at that. Peter's good at giving and Neal's good at taking and that's why this thing they have, this deal, that's why it works. Give and take and limited amounts of trust.

Peter slings an arm over his shoulder and leads him back into the house, calls to Elizabeth that he's going to get Neal into some pajamas lest he try to leave again, and maybe stick some dog tags to his anklet so people know who he belongs to if he tries anyway.

"Wouldn't put anything past you, Caffrey," Peter says fondly, his hand on the small of Neal's back as he guides him up the stairs and to the guest bedroom.

One of Peter's T-shirts is on the bed, ratty and old and faded, along with Neal's own pajama pants.

"Forgot to pack you a decent shirt to sleep in," his friend says apologetically, but Neal's fine with it, honestly. He pulls his own shirt off as Peter sits on the edge of the bed, turned away but ever-present, like he's afraid Neal's going to collapse, is going to need him like he needed him this morning, and Neal's afraid of this new ache stirring inside of his stomach and his chest and his brain twisting him all up because he doesn't _need_, but he _wants_.

He yanks Peter's shirt over his head and breathes in, takes in the new scent of laundry and the old scent of his partner and it feels like the hug he can't, or won't, ask for.

His jeans are halfway down when he feels the sucker jutting against the pocket.

"_Oh_," he says, plucking it out and kicking the jeans from his feet. "Hey, Peter." He stands in his boxers and presents Peter with the doctor's gift, only half-aware of his vulnerable state of undress. "This is for you," he says, his smile dazzling as Peter gives him a look that could and would make harder men quake.

Neal doesn't quake, though. He just grins woozily as Peter accepts the offering and tells him, "Put your pants on, kid." Neal puts his pajama pants on, a giggle escaping his sore throat when he hears a muttered, "Little bastard," come from Peter's direction.

But it's like the flick of a switch, how quickly it happens. How quickly he sobers. And nothing brings it on but a fleeting thought of Elizabeth downstairs alone with dinner.

A hot tear trickles down Neal's cheek.

Peter is appalled, is stuttering, "Wha…Neal? What's the matter?" And his hand is on Neal's shoulder, warm and steady and there, and the squeezing is tentative at first, then grows more confident as the apologies start spilling from Neal's lips, and then there are two hands on two shoulders, then two arms around a sick body because Neal is sorry, sorry for all those dinners missed, sorry for the game and the chase and the time, sorry for everything.


	4. Chapter 4

"It's okay," Peter says quietly, his hand on Neal's neck. He lets it slip down between the kid's shoulder blades where he pats twice before relieving both of them of the contact. Neal's bent over the bathroom sink, where the water is still draining, having left his once tear-stained face clean and dewy. He looks in the mirror. Peter looks there, too, sees the eyes still bright blue from emotion, the tip of the angular nose still red from sniffling. "Neal-"

"I'm alright, Peter," Neal says, and sniffles again. He turns around. His hand is working in the loose-fitting T-shirt Peter gave him to sleep in, clutching it and twisting it around his fist, the nervous action making him appear younger than he already does. "I promise."

"You're far from alright." Peter's tone is light, and he brushes his palm over Neal's cheek to reaffirm to himself that his words are true. Sure enough, the uncomfortable heat of fever still resides there. Neal leans into his touch, soaks in the coolness of his hand before pulling away. There's a lump in Peter's throat and he doesn't know what it is and he's not sure he likes it. All he knows is that there's something about Neal, there has always been something about Neal that works its way inside of him and breaks him down. Even before he knew him, even before he knew so much as the kid's name the feeling was there, even if the sentiment wasn't the same: _mine_.

Neal is Peter's catch, Peter's partner, Peter's responsibility.

"C'mon," Peter says. "El made you some fancy chicken soup. And there are homemade popsicles in the freezer."

Neal manages a small smile. "Really?"

Peter nods. "Pomegranate flavor, I hear."

Neal follows Peter down the stairs, pads into the kitchen in socked feet. He only seems to become self-conscious upon seeing El standing at the stove, stirring the soup. His hands go back to working the shirt for a moment before he gets his wits about him, takes a seat and hides himself behind the table.

Peter waits until he's turned away from the kid before he allows himself a smile at the innocent discomfort. El, too, sets about preserving Neal's dignity by not mentioning the obvious red around his eyes, or the pronounced sniffles he's suddenly acquired, though she throws Peter a quick, furtive glance that asks _what happened?_

Peter puts a hand on her shoulder and kisses the side of her head. She relaxes under his touch, his unspoken promise of _I'll tell you later_, stands on her toes and pecks him on the lips.

"Go take Neal's temperature," she orders, and her mouth is a solemn thing, but there's a smile in her eyes.

"Yes, ma'am," he says obediently, does all but salute, and retrieves the thermometer from the pantry.

Satchmo is by Neal's feet when he turns around, gently thumping his tail against the floor as Neal carefully drags his fingers along the dog's head and down his neck before fully immersing his hand in the fur. The dog whines happily, sticks his nose in the fabric of Neal's pajama bottoms in a show of trust and affection.

"Oh-pen," Peter half-sings, and Neal looks up at him with startled blue eyes, as if surprised that he is there. Peter waves the thermometer in front of the kid's face. "It'll only take a minute, buddy. And then there will be soup."

Neal rolls his eyes, half-heartedly mutters something about being infantilized, and begrudgingly opens his mouth. Peter sticks the thermometer in, skims a hand over Neal's hair as the mouth closes shut. If he were a worse person, a worse friend, he might say something about the crying now. How do you not infantilize someone who's made it into your arms and sobbed twice in one day? Especially with someone like Neal, someone with a face like Neal's face, a face that is young and trained into careful innocuousness. Man child. _Peter Pan_, Peter has called him before, because he could see the alternate universe of this mischief-maker he knows as Neal, hooting and hollering and making bird calls in woods full of fellow amoral children, running wild and taking the most massive of risks for the fun of it, for the thrill, for the beat of his heart in his throat and whatever it is he wins at the end. Kid just needs some pointy ears and a sword.

The thermometer beeps.

"102.3," Peter reads upon retrieving it from Neal's mouth.

"I run hot," Neal says, and the grin he aims up at Peter is a naughty one. It's Peter's turn to roll his eyes, and he lightly taps his friend's heated temple with three calloused fingers in mock reprimand.

"Speaking of running," El says, entering the dining area and setting down a bowl of steaming soup in front of Neal with careful hands. "Where did you think you were going earlier?"

Neal has the grace to blush, to turn his face away from her and towards the table, his voice shy when he admits, "I don't know. Away."

"Away why?"

Elizabeth is in that no-nonsense mode Peter sees on occasions when he gets in too deep in his job, forbidding and loving and conflictive, that thing that reminds him that this is a marriage and marriage, by nature, is not just bliss. She crosses her arms and looks at Neal, obviously expecting an answer.

Neal won't look at her. Kid looks hardened criminals in the face and lies convincingly on a weekly basis, but he can't look at Elizabeth when she reveals that she's more than sugar, more than a wooden support against a heavily leaning Peter. Not that Peter would ever think El wooden, for she's not, and he knows that Neal is too smart to make such a dense error because El is the opposite. El is fire with ice eyes and a maternal edge.

Peter puts a hand on Neal's shoulder and squeezes. "Away why?" he repeats, because he didn't ask earlier, was too set on serving as a dry lawn for Neal's rain of apologies and tears.

Neal shifts uncomfortably, his eyes on his soup. He sniffs. "Is that Romano?"

"_Neal_," Peter says, Elizabeth's stern tone merging with his own. A united front against a cunning, albeit sickly adversary.

Neal squirms in his seat, looks up at Peter pleadingly. "You said there would be _soup _after the thermometer."

Peter did say that. He looks at El to tell her so, but the glare she levels at him could kill a mountain lion and the little shake of the head she adds has him taking a seat on one side of Neal. El takes the seat on the other side, puts a hand over the conman's, says in a quiet, controlled tone, "June says you've taken to walking around at night."

"My soup is getting cold," Neal replies, his free hand reaching for the spoon at the side of the still-steaming bowl, but Peter does what he does best and catches that hand before the sneaky fingers reach the stem of the utensil.

"El is talking to you, Neal," Peter scolds gently, because the kid has been through too much recently for him to be gruff beyond the sounding of the one syllable name. "You're the one always talking about manners. Where are yours?"

Neal's eyes flash with something, then– something hard and hot and not at all reflective of the smooth young man Peter has come to know. Something willful, recalcitrant, and febrile. "Gone," Neal snaps. "Gone, like everything else." And he yanks his hand out of Peter's, turns his head back once more to the bowl of soup.

There's a mild and repetitive knock against the table then, and it takes Peter a moment to realize that Neal has the shakes, that El is now holding onto Neal's other trembling appendage with two of her own, is holding it up to her mouth and touching her lips to it.

Peter looks at his wife and his wife looks back. The silent communication is quick and to the point and Peter knows what he has to say, what he has to say to Neal to make it momentarily okay, to calm this chaos and keep the doors closed for the night, to keep his wife and his partner- his boy safe and warm.

He says, "You're not gone." And he puts his hand over Neal's hand. Neal doesn't pull away this time. Peter says, "And we're not gone, either."

Neal looks at Peter, trying so hard to blink that water back into his eyes.

"And you know what, buddy?" Peter asks.

"What?" Neal croaks.

"We've got nowhere to go. And neither do you. So none of us are going anywhere. Not for tonight, anyway."

Neal's hands slow to a stop like a puttering old Chevy. The Burkes release them, watch as their charge picks up his spoon and eats his soup.


	5. Chapter 5

He's not gone. He has nowhere to go. He's not going anywhere.

These are the things that Peter made clear, the things the wrest around in Neal's head as he tosses and turns, trying to get back to sleep. But sleep is unwilling to take him. The room is dark except for the city light that makes itself known through the window, creeping in through the closed blinds. The shadows in the room are unhelpful things. They are neither scary, nor are they plentiful. Perhaps if he were terrified, he would close his eyes. Perhaps if the number were high enough, the monotony of counting would send him into a sprawling, fevered sleep, but no, he is sweating on his pillow, kicking his covers down and then pulling them back up because the chills will take him even if slumber won't and it's unfair, this influenza, just like life.

Gone, Neal is not. He has nowhere to go. He's not going anywhere.

He wonders what would happen were he to get up from this bed right now, allow his feet to drift down the stairs and out the door. Brooklyn isn't what it once was - he probably won't get stabbed. Brooklyn is now cool and young, apartments brimming with those artists who like to starve, or not, because the starving ones are on the streets, playing for spare change and maybe a hamburger. They are not smart enough or impious enough to be Neal. Neal is still young, but starving ended long ago. Neal no longer believes in starving. Neal believes in fine things.

Even when they're gone, unlike Neal. Neal has nowhere to go. He's not going anywhere.

He no longer had fine things in prison. He had nothing but an orange jumpsuit and a dream of a girl who is now gone. She's not going anywhere, either, because she's not here anymore.

He's out of bed and feeling his way down the stairs in bare feet when the upstairs light flicks on and falls across his back.

"Neal." Peter's voice is stern and the single word ends in a rising intonation. Neal halts in the middle of the stairs, but doesn't turn around.

"How did you know?" he asks, his eyes on the lower story darkness. "I was quiet."

"And I was awake," Peter says. "I'm going to go ahead and hazard a guess that you wouldn't be groping around in the dark if you were doing something I would approve of."

Neal doesn't respond. He doesn't have to. The truth is in his silence.

Peter sighs. "Get back up here."

Neal hesitates. Then his shoulders slump in defeat. He gets back up there.

Peter takes him back to his room, leads him into the guest bathroom with a determined step to his gait. Neal watches as the agent kneels down in front of the bathtub and turns on the water, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Peter?"

"A bath will help cool your fever," Peter says.

Neal swallows, shivers at the thought of the other night, drenched, the water sloshing over his clothes and his skin and the city concrete.

Softly, "Will it be cold?"

And Peters face gentles as he turns around to look at him. "No, kid. It'll be warm. It might not be as warm as you, but it'll be warm." And he turns back to the water, carefully feeling out the temperature with his hand as the tub fills. He gets up as Neal is peeling off his sweat-dampened t-shirt, takes it out of conman's hands and throws it into the hamper. "I'll get you a new one while you're in there. Ten minutes, okay?"

Neal nods, catches Peter by the elbow before he steps towards the door. He says, "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Peter asks jocularly. "You didn't do anything…yet."

Neal swallows again. This is hard for him. "I…I'm sorry for the intent."

The amusement leaves Peter's eyes, then. He claps a hand on Neal's shoulder, lets it fall down, brushing Neal's arm along the way. "I appreciate that, Neal."

Neal's head jerks in a nod.

Peter smiles. "Now take your bath. Would you like some toys to amuse you, or are you good?"

Neal rolls his eyes. "Stop."

"Stopping," Peter says, and steps out the door, closing it behind him.

After all is said and done, Neal is back in fresh underpants and his pajama bottoms, his torso wrapped in a red towel as he makes his way back into his bedroom where Peter waits on the bed with a clean shirt. He's shivering and his teeth are chattering because warm isn't warm enough in times like these.

"Hey there, Mr. Freeze." Peter gets up and rubs his hands up and down Neal's toweled arms in the same way El did earlier with the afghan. Something warm blooms in Neal's stomach at the touch and he resists the urge to lean in, to tuck his head once again against Peter's neck, to encourage the continuation of such a touch even though he would love nothing more at this exact moment.

"N-not evil," he says instead, and Peter stops and nods, hands him the T-shirt.

"You are most decidedly not," he agrees, and pulls down the covers of the bed as Neal tugs the shirt over his head. "In."

Neal gets in obediently. "You t-tucking me in?" he asks, but the question is moot, because Peter, is, indeed, tucking him in, pulling the covers up to his chin and packing them around his sides. Neal sighs, close to content, as the warmth of the blankets and the action battles the chills and the residual dampness of his skin. "Thanks."

Peter says, "You're welcome." And looks for a moment like he's about to turn around and leave. But he lingers. "Neal?"

"Yes?"

"What is it that you're looking for?"

Neal doesn't have to ask to know that Peter means his mysterious nighttime jaunts through the city. Peter, he has the feeling, really didn't have to ask to know the answer.

"I don't know," he admits quietly.

And Peter nods, skims a hand over Neal's wavy hair. "Alright," he says. "You don't know, so you stay where you are until you do, you got it? And you tell me when you do, so I can help you look."

"Okay," Neal says, too quickly, for he doesn't intend to tell Peter any such thing.

"Neal."

Neal takes pause at the stern tone, a smile tugging at his lips because while so many things may be gone, one thing remains: his ability to annoy Peter. "Okay, Peter. I will. I'll tell you like a good boy."

Peter snorts. "Like a good boy," he echoes, and rolls his own eyes because they're both thinking the same thing: _when pigs fly._ "Goodnight, kid."

And he goes to the door, waits for Neal's own, "Night, Peter," before flicking the switch and making the light gone.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry, it's short. And I don't know how I feel about it, but I hope you guys enjoy it. Thanks for all the reviews. You guys are really sweet and kind so I can't help updating for you when I really should be working on other things. Haha. You little...amazing people. *shakes fist*

* * *

The oatmeal is hot and steaming, sweetly topped with one half spoonful of brown sugar and one full spoonful of love. Elizabeth placed it in front of him with a 'Here you go, sweetie" and a kiss on top of his uncombed and unruly mop of brown hair. Now Neal sits at the table staring at it, at times poking delicately at the mound of meal with his spoon, placing the end of the utensil in his mouth to sample the sweetness. He can't bring himself to actually tuck in and eat. His body aches, his head aches, and his stomach is saying "No" with the force of a child who just learned the meaning of the word.

He blinks, his eyelashes fluttering, his skin pale. He feels a palm on his head as Peter walks by. Then it's gone and he's alone. For all of two seconds, he is utterly and painfully alone.

For that hand is smart, it knows, it is back on his neck, on his face, feeling for the heat. Neal groans miserably, melts into the cool touch, resists that child inside that's saying "_Can I? Can I_?" because no, he can't. He can't turn around and bury his head into Peter's midsection because he may be sick, but he's also grown, and these moments need to stop.

He thought the shakes were bad enough, but at least they had a reluctance about them. He could keep his face passive, his body relaxed, his limbs cool and lithe and allow his hands to just go to town. But crying spells are a whole new animal. They're homicidal sons of bitches, choking him from the inside out until waterfalls pour from his eyes and the earth feels like its shattering, cracking, ready to swallow him whole but it can't. It can't compete with the storm of Neal's own tears because the world can't eat him alive if he drowns in his own water first.

"…nothing for you, Satch. Maybe Daddy will get you a treat after he takes Neal's temperature."

Daddy. Neal doesn't have one. But there's a big, strong hand rubbing his neck right now and he remembers being eight years old under a false name, sitting in the park, sketching the sunshine coming through the trees, dousing green grass yellow and seeing the other kids with daddies, little girls on the shoulders of all sorts of men, little boys being steered by the neck, a ball or Frisbee or something athletic and un-Neal-like in their hands and he wants to ask Peter now, "Where are we going?" wants Peter to take him out back and teach him to throw and catch something indelicately, because they're not in a hurry, the law's not after them, and it doesn't need to be put back just right.

"Open up, kiddo."

Neal opens his mouth, closes it around the thermometer, feels the brush of that cool, coarse hand smoothing the hair back from his head.

"I think he needs to go back to bed, hon- Oh, sorry, bud, you want Daddy to get you a treat?"

_No thank you, _Neal thinks as Satchmo whimpers in the affirmative and he hears the jingle of the dog's collar, the thumping of that yellow tail against the kitchen floor and his face burns with the knowledge that he just mistook that question to be for him.

The jealousy is thick and hot, pooling inside of him. For a moment it feels worse than his other current ailments because Neal's been jealous of a lot of things in his life: kids with dads, kids with moms who functioned, kids with enough money for good art supplies, fine people with fine things, law-abiding citizens, those who will never know what it's like inside an orange jumpsuit…but he's never been jealous of a dog before.

A new low.

The thermometer beeps and is promptly removed.

"Neal, sweetheart, try to eat at least two spoonfuls for me, okay? Then you can go back to bed." Elizabeth is by his ear, and he feels her soft lips, gentle against his cheek, before she moves away. "Have a good day at work, hon."

"I'll try, hon." Neal can hear the smile in Peter's voice, can hear the brush of their lips as they kiss goodbye. And then Peter is above him, and so is that smile, and that hand is back in his hair. "Feel better, partner. Be good for El."

And Neal tilts his head back and smiles up at Peter with as much mischief as he can muster. Peter's index finds its way to the center of the conman's forehead where it taps three times in a mild sort of warning, but there's a twinkle in the man's eyes and Neal can feel it, the trust like a warm blanket on a cold day.

But then the finger is gone, and so is Peter. And Satchmo's head is on Neal's knee, expecting petting, and Neal does because Satchmo is soft and innocent and kind, does what he's told without argument, exists to give and receive love freely, just as any sentient being of Peter's and Elizabeth's should.

"Ne-eal," Elizabeth sings, and there's a finger pointing at his oatmeal. Neal takes two bites and goes to bed.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Sorry if the quality of this is less than expected. I lost a thousand words due to an unfortunate flick of the fingers while typing and couldn't get it back. *shakes fist* I was so upset, but I tried to recreate it and it's not as good. :( Hope you guys enjoy it, anyway.

* * *

Something's off.

Peter feels it the moment he enters the house, the silence cacophonous in the empty space. No El, no Satch, no Neal. He moves noiselessly into the foyer, clicks the front door shut behind him. Everything inside of him is screaming discord, his eyes searching for blood in the crevices of the living room, his hand reaching for his gun when a creak sounds from the stairs and he comes to a screeching halt. He looks up. There stands Neal, fully dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, glancing at Peter before casting cerulean eyes down to his bare feet.

"I-"

"Are you okay?" Peter demands, relief rushing through him at the sight of his young friend until fear clenches his heart again. "Where's El?"

"She's in the back with Satchmo, isn't she?" Neal asks, and he bites his lower lip. He puts a toe on the next step down and then immediately retreats back, as if burned. "I thought I heard the backdoor open and close."

"Get down here," Peter says, and walks deliberately towards the back of the house. A peek through the blinds reveals his wife's beautiful face, a smile white and blazing at their handsome dog, a stick in her hand and in his teeth and everything is okay. Everything is okay and Peter's heart is slowing down.

Then why does the house feel like it's crying?

Neal's still on the stairs, sitting at the top with his feet planted two down, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, all of which makes him appear boyish and…firmly rebuked.

"Neal, I said-"

"Elizabeth said I can't."

"She said you can't come down?" This is a puzzle. Peter is puzzled. A visual probing leaves him with nothing but the realization that Neal is in the same clothes that Peter dressed him in the previous morning. With the exception of shoes, that is, leaving Neal barefoot and innocent with his hair over his forehead, his skin still pale, but flushed with fever. "Are you supposed to be in bed?"

Neal jerks one shoulder up in a shrug, turns a hand into a fist and places his cheek against it. "She didn't specify. She just said that I wasn't…" He mumbles the rest of the sentence, muffles it against that fist.

"That you weren't what?" Peter asks, and takes two steps up the stairs to get closer to the source of the words. "Neal, take your hands away from your mouth. How old are you?"

Neal ignores the verbal jab, but obeys and sets his hands on his knees. He swallows and looks away from Peter, looks towards the wall, as if trying to muster up some bravery before looking back, keeping his eyes steady with those of his handler. "She said I wasn't allowed out of my room," he says, in the smoothest voice he's managed in 48 hours, though Peter spies traces of embarrassment in the softer parts of his cheeks, in the way his mouth moves as he bites the tip of his tongue behind closed lips.

Peter raises an eyebrow. "She said you weren't..." But he stops, processes it, waves a dismissive hand and asks the bigger question, "What did you do?"

Neal looks down at his knees, taps his fingers against them as if he's putting on his own little show to distract himself from the confession he's about to make: "I tried to leave."

* * *

_Four hours earlier…_

Neal lay sleepy and fetal in his bed, curled towards the wall and away from the door, his mind running and running and running. He didn't think it would ever stop and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, tried to will it into blankness, into darkness, because maybe his dreams would be happy, sweet things filled with the riches of Manhattan and a singular lifestyle, a lifestyle that neither boasted, nor needed any love.

Especially not that kind of love. And not at this age.

He was almost there when something gigantic fell onto his bed. It wriggled and snuffled and licked at his neck with a big wet tongue. Neal couldn't help it, and, feeling mean, he shoved the dog away. Satchmo whimpered, sat down on the mattress and just looked at Neal then. Just sat there and looked until he couldn't look anymore, and then he pawed at the conman's side, an urgent plea for attention, and Neal couldn't deal with it, with this dog that had everything and just wanted more. He turned around and snarled, "What?" at that innocent canine with his trusting brown eyes and wagging tail.

And Satchmo just looked at him.

And Elizabeth asked, "Neal?" from the bedroom door, a glass of fruit juice in her hand.

And Neal felt the result of meanness that any decent-hearted person feels. He felt regret. He said, "I…I just. M'sorry."

Elizabeth ignored the apology and focused on the dog. "Satch, off the bed, baby. You know better than that." Satchmo apparently did know better than that, for he leapt off the bed as soon as he was confronted with Elizabeth's disapproving tone. No head-cocking puppy confusion, just obedience.

Neal, for his part, possessed the self-awareness to know that he would have responded with the former and this was why Satchmo was an optimum example of a pet, of a surrogate son. Just as Neal was not.

And everything about this train of thought was ridiculous. Jealousy of a dog need be either nonexistent or fleeting, definitely not another haunting in Neal's fevered brain. For even though Elizabeth set the juice on the nightstand and reached down to feel Neal's head, to stroke his hair, to softly ask, "Are okay, sweetie?" in mellifluous tones, for even though Neal turned fully towards her and closed his eyes before her, openly soaking in the coolness of her touch, trusting her to continue the contact even through his lack of response, he could feel the transience of this moment in his life. This sickness would end and he would go home, and he would be touched like this no more.

He couldn't begin to explain what he was thinking an hour later as he dressed himself in his jeans and his hoodie, as he missed the feeling of Peter's hands doing the dressing for him, of his own unhelpfulness as the pants went up over his hips and the shirt went down over his head, that feeling of being fully taken care of. He could kick himself for not appreciating it then, not appreciating it to the full extent that it should be appreciated, that it was the kind of action a father would take: to dress his sick son in clothes that weren't said son's standard attire, and Peter knew this of Neal. Peter knew that Neal would rather victimize a sweatshirt than a tie with his vomit were there to be a bodily fluid situation and that – as bizzare as it was – made Neal feel warm inside.

All he really knew was that he wasn't Satchmo. All the hair-strokings and temperature-takings and tuckings-in would end the moment he cooled off to a regular 98.6, when his throat cleared up and the inflammation went down, when Neal could stop crying five times a day because Kate was dead, and he wasn't theirs and he didn't belong. Neal wasn't picked when he was small enough and cute enough to be picked, so he will never be picked at all.

All he really knew was that he had to leave this place and these feelings behind before they left him lonesome and craving.

He was out the door before Elizabeth realized he was gone, but she came after him, caught him by the arm, said, "You get back in the house right _now_, Neal Caffrey." in the sternest of stern tones that would leave much larger and tougher men quaking, just like one of her husband's looks.

Neal didn't quake, though. He didn't quake for Peter and he wouldn't quake for Elizabeth. He blinked, hiding the fact that he was, indeed, impressed by her menacing demeanor. And he smiled. "It's okay, Elizabeth. I'm just going back to June's."

Something hard flitted through her eyes, cast down by something soft. He couldn't get an exact read on her emotions, but he hoped it wasn't pity. Anger, he could deal with, but not pity. "June's not home. You have to stay here so we can take care of you," she said and tugged gently at his arm.

"I feel better now."

"You're burning _up_," Elizabeth retorted. "Now come on, I have to call my client back."

"You were working?"

She ignored the question. "Look, Neal, I can beg, or I can plead and cry, I don't care, but you're going back in the house. Or I can call Peter. I can assure you that you'll be very sorry if any one of these things has to happen, because the result will be just the same as if it didn't."

If the guilt from messing up her work wasn't enough, the threat of her crying had him heading back into the house, her hand on the small of his back, driving him there. Upon entering the foyer, she pulled the bag from his arm and kicked the door shut behind them with her foot.

"Good choice," she said, and pushed him towards the first stair. "Now get up to your room and stay there. I'm extremely unhappy with you right now."

To his credit, there was no head-cocking puppy confusion. Neal said, "Yes, Elizabeth," hung his head low, and obeyed.

* * *

Peter stares at Neal. Neal stares at his hands.

How is he supposed to react to this information that his wife grounded his CI? On one hand, Neal isn't where he's supposed to be. On the other, this could be a good cop/bad cop scenario, and El has already obviously chosen the role of bad cop, so…

The swift sound of the backdoor opening interrupts his thoughts and Satchmo joyfully pads in, his paws tapping against the hardwood floor. Elizabeth enters behind him, softly clicking the door shut and then, as if feeling his presence asks, "Hon?"

"Through here, hon," Peter calls, and looks up to see Neal scrambling up the stairs on all fours to stand at the top on two shaky-looking legs. The kid puts a finger to his lips, indicating that Peter should say nothing about his presence. Peter nods seriously, winks in an overdramatic fashion and says to El, "Neal's here, too."

Elizabeth narrows her blue eyes, walks briskly over to the stairs. She points a finger up at a wide-eyed Neal. "You. Room. Now."

And Neal scrambles away.

Peter chuckles, the sound coming deep from his throat as he turns around and puts his arms about his wife. "You grounded my CI," he says, leaning down and kissing her lips. "That takes…"

"Moxie?" Elizabeth breathes, her eyes twinkling up at him.

Peter nods thoughtfully. "Also, chutzpah."

"Maybe some pizazz," El adds, and kisses him again. Then she pulls away, eyes him in an almost accusing manner. "You know, if you had laid down the law with him last night, we wouldn't have had a problem today."

"Kid was crying last night," Peter replies softly, just in case Neal is doing as Neal does and eavesdropping. "I thought he was just out of his head."

"Well he wasn't, Peter. This is a thing with him."

Peter knows. Neal's looking for something and he doesn't know what it is. It makes his heart ache when he thinks about how the kid keeps going outside for it when Peter has a feeling, strong and ardent as flames, that what he's looking for is right here.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Thank you guys for all the reviews. You're so kind. *hugs*

* * *

Neal paces the length of the room. He counts his steps to make sure that it's not true, that it's just his imagination, that the walls aren't closing in. He feels like a big cat in a circus cage, put on display, but nobody's watching. The people got bored, sleepy with the rhythmic motion of his well-kept paws, decided he wasn't dangerous enough to be worth it and walked away to see if the elephants would rampage.

Neal wonders if the hypothetical elephants have popsicles. If so, he's jealous. His throat hurts something awful.

He nibbles on the end of his thumbnail. He's just about to take a peek out of his room when the gentle rapping of knuckles sounds against the door. Peter pokes his head inside, asks, "Can I come in, buddy?" And Neal nods, takes his thumb away from his mouth, feels relief like a shower washing dirt away, that same relief that always comes with company after confinement, no matter how long.

Peter enters the room and closes the door behind him, sits down on the edge of the bed and looks up at Neal, the understanding in his eyes accompanied by a mild twinkle of amusement because what lawman wouldn't be amused by a criminal grounded to a room like a child?

The thumb goes back to Neal's mouth. He's not even angry. He feels young and timorous, wants to ask for a popsicle because his throat is raw, and a hug because he's tired of being alone.

"Hey," Peter says lightly, and he's up off the bed and carefully extracting the thumb from Neal's mouth. "What's got you so nervous?"

Neal shrugs a shoulder. "I don't do well with cells," he says, his voice quiet and raspy.

Peter looks around at the curtained windows and the cushy bed, the writing desk tucked away in the room's corner. "This is hardly a cell," he says, but takes a moment to peer at Neal and then turns to open the bedroom door. A rush of air seems to come from the hallway and Neal breathes in, coughs as the inhalation chafes his throat. "Hey, hey," Peter says, and there's a hand on Neal's back and it's rubbing.

"Sorry."

"S'okay, kid." And that hand continues its ministrations. Neal arches into it, thinks that he can do it now, can take a hug if he wants it, his age and pride be damned. But then Peter says, "I thought you promised me you'd be a good boy." And that moment is gone.

Neal smirks, croaks "I don't remember _promising _anything_._" Because he didn't and he wouldn't. Promises aren't just words to him. Peter Burke is the law and you don't bypass the law as much as Neal Caffrey has without wording things exactly right, or without remembering your words to bring them up later in the face of accusation.

But Peter's not annoyed. His eyes and mouth are tight with concern. He says, "You sound like you could use some juice."

Neal nods vigorously and Peter smiles, leads him out the door and into the hallway. Neal stops abruptly at the top of the stairs and watches his handler descend without a thought.

"Neal-?"

"Is she mad?" And again, Neal feels juvenile and timid. He looks at his toes, tries not to look at Peter. He doesn't want to see laughter in the man's eyes because it's serious this time. Elizabeth is serious business. Maybe he didn't quake in the presence of her reproach, but maybe he should have. Not twenty-four hours ago, he lost it at the memory of playing games with Peter while Peter missed dinners with his wife. Then he goes and messes up her work and for what? And why did she bother coming after him?

"Even if she is, she wouldn't want you sitting up there thirsty and with a sore throat," Peter replies, and Neal attempts a glance up, sees that Peter's not laughing at all, once again has that taut and tense look of worry about his eyes. "Just because you're being punished doesn't mean you have to go the extra mile and punish yourself, Neal. Next time, you come get what you need."

The assertion takes Neal by surprise. He drops down two steps. "You don't think bad people should feel bad while being punished? You believe in justice, but not the human conscience?"

"I believe," Peter says, crooking two fingers to encourage him down farther, "that _you_ are a good person who feels the punishment he's being given and who doesn't require any extra self-flagellation."

Huh.

Neal smiles, and it's a bright and beautiful thing. He knows it is, because he created it. "Why, thank you, Peter." And he trots down the rest of the stairs. "I'll remember that the next time I don't adhere to your rules post-consequences."

Peter snorts. "What consequences?" he asks, before falling into some kind of silent, thoughtful state that has Neal working at his lip with his teeth, and walking quickly towards the kitchen.

Elizabeth's at the stove, standing over the reheating pot of chicken noodle soup, and upon their entrance, she turns around, one hand on one hip and asks, "Did you boys talk?"

And no, they didn't, but before Peter can give it away, Neal steps forward and throws his arms around her, buries his face into her neck, mumbles, "M'sorry, Elizabeth," leaving promises to Peter, because promises are serious things that Neal doesn't make when he's well enough to be smart, when he has places to look and things to find. Whatever places or things those might be.

Elizabeth pushes him away and looks him in the eye. It appears like she's about to say something remonstrative, but then she pauses, softens, instead says, "Oh, sweetie, your throat. Do you want a popsicle?"

And Neal nods, for he would very much like a popsicle, please.

Dinner, three popsicles, and one cup of Goodnight Grape-flavored Sleepytime tea later, Neal heads to the bathroom, red around the mouth from various juices, frozen and otherwise. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, pulls on his pajama pants, and tugs Peter's shirt over his head. The thought is fleeting, but it occurs to him that he's feeling somewhat better. Less foggy in the brain area, at least.

When he returns to his bedroom, he finds Peter sitting on the bed, the covers turned down.

"Ah, do I get tucked in again?" he asks with a snarky smile, hoping the raw desire doesn't show on his face. He sits gingerly on the sheets, looks at Peter expectantly. "Something you want to talk about, partner?"

Peter nods, more to himself than to Neal, and then turns so they're eye to eye, their knees bumping together in their closeness. "Tonight, you don't go anywhere."

Neal swallows, but nods, having expected such an order. "Of course."

"No, Neal," Peter says, and he shakes his head. "Say the words. Say, "Tonight, I'm not going anywhere."

Of course Peter knows too many of Neal's tricks. Every time Neal played with him during the chase, every clue he left allowed Peter some kind of access to his inner workings. That's Peter's job. That's what Peter is good at, is smart at.

"Tonight, you're not going anywhere," Neal says, and lets his torso fall onto the bed, his face into the pillow, at Peter's look of annoyance. He laughs as he hears the stern "_Neal_" followed by a sigh and a firm pat to his hip, kicks his legs up onto Peter's thighs and makes himself comfortable, his back flat on the mattress.

"You're incorrigible," Peter grumbles. He rests a hand on one of Neal's knees, kneads the joint with strong, coarse fingers. "Say it, Neal."

Neal could get lost in the contact, could easily lay there and let his mind go blank, go dumb, and say whatever Peter wants him to say. And he does. He says it. He lies: "Tonight, I'm not going anywhere."

"Good boy," Peter says, and pats Neal's thigh. He shifts out from underneath Neal's legs, has them up on the bed and under the covers in a few swift seconds. Neal finds himself aching and lonesome, and Peter's not even gone yet.

He braces himself, waits for it to happen, waits for the covers to go up to his chin, for the light to flick off, for Peter to be gone, gone just like Kate and freedom and fine things.

But.

Peter goes nowhere.

Peter sits down on the edge of the mattress, places a hand on the conman's T-shirted chest, and rubs until Neal lays languorous, and asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: It's short. Short is what I do. Next chapter will be longer and probably fluffy and warm.

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Neal falls out of bed and lands on his feet. He's cat-like in his movements, silent as he dresses in the dark and slips out of his room, drifts down the stairs like a ghost and then he's out, out, out. He drinks in the cold night air like a man dying of thirst, spits his breath back out in hot, smoky tendrils. He is free and lost and looking for fuck knows, because his head is still burning and he's got things on his mind.

He thinks of Peter and El snug and warm in bed, Satchmo asleep at the foot or on the floor and he shivers and realizes that he left his coat in the foyer. He wishes he hadn't. He crosses his arms and hunches over, walks down the sidewalk toward nowhere and nothing because the world is gone, it exploded in a plane months ago and now Neal Caffrey is a sick boy. A sick, sad boy who is cold and hot at the same time, oxymoronic in his very existence, clinging to the memories of small touches of affection from his handler, those coarse fingers brushing at his skin and telling him he belongs in some way that he doesn't. Neal is no one and everyone and he belongs nowhere and everywhere. He takes what he wants and throws everything that he's entitled to away.

Neal is a sick, sad boy in a sick, sad world and there's a woman on a stoop, blowing into a harmonica. Her sign says _Homeless_, and Neal can see it in her dirty hair and bloodless skin, the neglected appearance of her aging hands. He wants to give her money but he has none. He wants to see her smile, so he flashes one at her, and she flashes one back. She has no teeth. Nothing to chew with.

Neal's teeth are bright and white and existent. He has a home to go back to – two, at the moment. He would give her one, if he could. June's, probably, so she could live in comfort and extravagance, something so out of her realm that the world would seem bright and shiny and new again. Neal likes things like that – bright, shiny, and new. It's what gets him into trouble.

Neal remembers trouble. He remembers adventure, the feeling of riches freshly stolen between his fingers and before his eyes. Paintings, whiskey, sculptures, bonds – things he could forge with his own two hands. Flawless things. Beautiful things. He remembers creation, how hard it is to start out, that first chip at a block of marble, that first stroke of a brush and then the second and a third, God knows how many, and then his mind is gone, is somewhere else and his hands are like water, smooth and flowing like a stream over rocks. Where there should be resistance, but there is none.

He remembers his first time inside of Kate and how it was much the same.

The first time Peter touched him like he was something other than a miscreant, the air like a rock as his hand came down onto his head, but then it was there and it fell onto his shoulder and it meant something.

It meant many things.

And just like that, he wants back. He wants back at Peter's house, back in bed where he will wake up with a palm on his head and a thermometer in his mouth and who cares if Satchmo is their only child, Neal is something, too. There's adventure in how far he can take it, how much he can grab, because it's all gone anyway. Kate's all gone, and his mom is all gone, and his dad was never there. Everything he was entitled to threw itself away and now it's Neal's for the taking.

And he's walking. He's walking back. For who knows how long, he's walking back.

The lights are on when he arrives.

He's freezing when he reenters the house. He feels like a dripping block of ice when the heat hits him, skin melting to the floor. Peter and Elizabeth rush at him, wrap him in a blanket, put their arms around him. He hears the words _big_ and _trouble_ in two different octaves as they hustle him to the couch, as they sit him down and cross their arms and put their hands on their hips and pace back and forth, back and forth, gesticulating sternly.

Peter says, "House arrest."

Elizabeth says, "Room arrest."

Peter throws his hands up in the air. "Lets call it what it is." He points a finger at Neal. "Grounded forever."

Elizabeth retreats to the kitchen to get him a cup of hot tea. Peter reaches down and palms Neal's forehead, then his cheek, then his chin, tilting his face up so that their eyes meet. And he says, "Don't do that to me ever again," his voice quiet, but firm.

And Neal is struck by a sense of wonder as he realizes that he took nothing. Nothing at all. He didn't even have to try.

It was just given.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Sorry, you guys. It's a little longer, but could be fluffier, I guess. Depends on your definition of fluff. But, hey, I updated fast. Haha. Thank you for all your reviews! You guys are excellent.

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The coffee is fresh and hot and black. Peter sips it from his morning mug as he regards Neal over the brim. The kid is in his pajamas, sniffling miserably over a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of fruit juice, a box of tissues cast off to the other side of the table. Whatever illuminating realizations he came to last night – and Peter certainly hopes that there was at least one, given the heart attack he about had when he realized the kid had disappeared without his coat – didn't save him from worsening his sickness. Neal came down with a stuffy nose and a sore throat and a heightened fever, despite the extra measures they took to warm him up before putting him back to bed. Neal hadn't protested the warm bath or the extra blankets, had simply gotten into the tub and under the covers. He, in fact, seemed to relish in Peter's insistence on sitting on the closed toilet lid to make sure he didn't slip out in the nude, and El's hands sternly tucking him into bed, her grumbling about restraints and how they were needed and did Peter have any on him, by chance?

Peter did, but he didn't tell his wife that in case she was serious.

Neal coughs into his hand. It comes out of the fray dripping with mucus and the kid quickly goes for a tissue to wipe himself clean. "Sorry," he rasps. "M'sorry."

Elizabeth is at the pantry and pulling out a liquid decongestant by the second apology, is getting a spoon from the drawer, and heading over to Neal.

"Open," she says, unscrewing the lid. Neal opens his mouth and screws up his pretty face at the taste of the medicine she spoon-feeds him. "Drink some juice, baby," she says, and passes the glass of juice quickly into his hands. He takes sips, eager and quick, though pain flashes across his features as he swallows.

Peter quirks an eyebrow to himself at his wife's chosen pet name, but doesn't comment on it. He doesn't feel awkward or uncomfortable at the notion, just a twinge in his chest that is neither pleasant, nor unpleasant. It just is. It's that same thing that's been driving him since the plane exploded in flames and noise and ash, since he wrenched that boy away from death and pulled him into his arms. Since he dressed the kid with his own hands and brought him to his own house and vowed to take care of him while this illness coursed its way through him. Since he realized that it wasn't just the flu, but something worse, something in that brilliant head sickening Neal, bringing about those shakes and those tears that couldn't be controlled. That twinge in his chest that destroyed that awkwardness, that resistance, and left him with hands ruffling his CI's hair, rubbing Neal's back, and kneading his knees.

Satchmo sticks a wet nose against Peter's knee, whines for a pat on the head, which Peter gladly gives him.

"Hey, Satch," he croons, running his hand down the dog's neck. "What did Mommy do to you?"

El looks up, her own hand on Neal's head, and smiles at the game. "Mommy did nothing to him. Satch, what did Daddy do to you?"

"Daddy gave him a pat on the head," Peter replies, cooing at the dog. "Yes, he did. Mommy, on the other hand, was neglectful. She did nothing to you, did she, Satchmo?"

"You guys," Neal interjects, twirling his spoon in his oatmeal, "are some odd birds."

Peter cracks a grin at his wife, who smirks back. It's true, in a lot of ways. They are odd birds. Not everyone goes around questioning dogs about the heinous acts of their spouse, nor do they go around adopting ailing conmen as their surrogate children. Because that's what's happened, Peter realizes, feeling a lump in his throat along with that twinge in his chest as he looks at El's hand on Neal's shoulder, as Neal obediently takes a spoonful of oatmeal and blows on it, as El leans down next to Neal's ear and stage whispers, "At least we're not _grounded _odd birds."

Neal glumly lets his spoon fall back into his bowl. "You two were serious about that, huh?"

Annoyance flashes through El's eyes at the same time that Peter feels it hit him like a bullet; of course they were serious about that.

"You _promised_ me," Peter says, his voice strong and firm, his stern eyes boring into startled blue ones. "It's one thing when you're sneaking around and I haven't caught you, yet, Neal. It's another when I know and then give you my trust that you won't do it again. You threw it back in my face last night."

Peter watches the conman shift in his chair, uncomfortable. It takes about two seconds for Neal to become self-aware, for him to straighten and smoothly grab a tissue from the box, delicately dab at his running nose, and try to defend himself with: "I didn't say those words. I didn't say 'I promise.' Besides, you _made _me say it."

"It doesn't matter how it came about. You say it, you do it. You make it, you keep it. Otherwise your word is nothing. I know you, kid. I know despite everything, you still want to be more than that. You want your word to mean something."

That twinge in his chest has swelled into something heavy and stagnant in the span of time it takes for him to say this, and Neal is looking at him with steady eyes. El has a different expression aimed at Peter, a delicate mixture of surprise and pride as she stands behind Neal, stroking his hair back. It's not often that Peter is so emotionally open or intuitive, and it's caught her off guard.

"I'm sorry," Neal says sincerely. "I really am. I shouldn't have done that to you, or to Elizabeth. I shouldn't have walked out in the middle of the night-"

"Without your coat," Elizabeth interjects indignantly.

"-without my coat," Neal agrees.

"Or at all," Peter says, because the wording makes it sound like it would have been okay had he had his coat. And it wouldn't have been. Not at all.

Neal says, "Or at all." And chews on his lower lip momentarily before continuing. "I'm sorry, but I think I'm a little old to be grounded, don't you?"

"No." The word comes out of two mouths in perfect unison and Neal winces at the sound.

"But-"

"No." Together, again, he and Elizabeth. Always. And they smile at each other over the top of Neal's head.

"You said something about consequences yesterday," Peter says, turning his eyes back to the conman. "And I realized I've never given you any. And you don't learn anything. You just keep repeating your actions over and over again thinking that just because the result is right, so is the process. It's not, Neal. Hiding things from me, sneaking around, bypassing the law…none of its right. I know you look at me and _see _the law, but I am not the enemy-"

"I know that," Neal cuts in hastily, and coughs again, hard, into his hand. El reaches over and pulls a wad of tissues from the box, hands them down to the kid. "I know that, Peter," Neal repeats, his voice thick and gritty with mucus.

"Then why won't you come to me when you're in trouble, or when you have a problem, or when you have an idea?" Peter asks. "You can say it all you want, you can even think it, Neal. You can tell yourself that you believe it, but your actions are screaming the opposite and I never know what to do with you other than lecture you. And what does that do? Nothing. Words go in one ear and out the other. Every single time." Peter takes a sip of coffee, watches as Neal cleans up his hands, as El takes the polluted tissues away despite Neal's look of utter horror and throws them in the trash. "I've threatened you with house arrest before. This is just the same, except you'll be here instead of at June's."

"You've never gone through with it before," Neal grumbles.

"Well, I should have, then. I should have gone through with it, so you could learn. I'm doing you a disservice when I don't follow through so I'm following through. Maybe you're a little big to be grounded, but this way it's off your record. We keep it in the family." The heavy, stagnant thing in his chest feels huge. Peter looks steadily at Neal, says softly, "We keep you here. With us."

_Where you belong_, he doesn't say, but it doesn't need to be said. It hangs in the air, and Neal looks away, looks at his hands, his lips turned slightly upward and Peter knows that's exactly it. He just found the key.

And he knows what it is now, what grew from that twinge. It's heavy and it hurts and it's neither pleasant, nor unpleasant. It's just nestled in there, that love. Love for Neal. His CI, his friend, his boy.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Sorry, real life has been busy and tiring and troubling. This story is now concluded, but I can do one-shots in the same verse when I have time for those interested. Thank you for all your support, for reading and for reviewing, and favoriting and following. All of you are spectacular.

* * *

They're as alone as they've been for days with Neal in his room. The kid moped and shuffled his feet, dragged them through the family room and up the stairs, but not once did he say a word of protest. When Peter got him to his room, Neal sat on the bed, obediently took the thermometer into his mouth, and watched with those eyes, bright and febrile as Peter silently read the result. It wasn't a good one, but instead of allowing Neal an adult's knowledge of his own condition, he simply gave the side of the conman's leg a gentle thwack, indicating that Neal should lie on his side because it was bedtime. Again. Again and for always, it seemed.

But this time, Neal didn't obey. He kept looking at Peter as if the physical nudge hadn't even registered, those eyes fighting to come to a decision. And Peter looked back, wondering if he should say something, anything, to help the kid along, but he found himself, not for the first time and not for the last, without words to fall back on. It didn't matter this time, though. As unnerving as the staring contest became, it didn't matter, this feeling of being suspended in the air without a wire, with nothing to cling to. It was in Neal's hands now and for the first time in memory, he was the one to catch Peter.

And he did, in those strong, slender arms he threw around Peter's waist. In that deceptively young face he buried into Peter's midsection. In those moments of silence with a meaning so deafening that it would get lost in spoken word, Neal caught Peter.

And Peter could barely breathe, the moment too pure to be polluted by whatever lay in his exhalation. His hands were still and rigid at first, but eventually they went to the boy's hair, where he stroked with a tenderness he had only begun to discover. He felt Neal's hot breaths against his shirt and they stayed like that until Neal broke away, not looking at Peter as he kicked his legs up onto the bed and let his head fall into the pillow. The only acknowledgement he gave was the shift upwards of his hips, aiding Peter in pulling the covers down so they could be brought over him, tucked firmly around him, along with another stroke to his hair and this time, a gruff kiss to the side of his head.

It seemed like the right thing to do, Peter thinks now, on the sofa with El's feet on his lap and Satchmo at his side. The kiss seemed natural, a movement riding the momentum of the catch, of that moment where Peter's feet were grounded and safe and his heart was alive and pounding in his chest, where he knew with the steadiest of certainties that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

"Maybe we were too hard on him." Peter hears the words coming out of his own mouth, but his brain can't quite comprehend that he was the one who said them.

The Arts & Leisure section of the newspaper hits El's lap with a sharp crinkle. Peter feels her eyes like lasers burning a hole into his head and he hears himself again, this time retreating, "…or maybe not."

"You bet your ass maybe not," El grumbles, and picks the paper back up, returns her eyes to the text, and says no more. Apparently, Peter muses, the things that come out of his mouth are just that stupid.

It's two hours later and they're in the kitchen, Peter chopping up vegetables for a fresh batch of Elizabeth's chicken soup, Elizabeth pouring broth into a large pot. Satchmo is in the corner of the room chewing on a rawhide bone, his tail thumping happily against the kitchen floor. Peter remembers a few days ago, a morning with one shoe and an only child. Something about that doesn't ring true anymore.

Especially when another, larger and less furry, but another child, manages to get all the way downstairs and to the fridge without making a noise. Peter and El spin around at the sound of the freezer door opening, see Neal with mussed hair and bare feet pulling a pomegranate popsicle out. It goes straight into his mouth and he sucks on it, turns to face them, blinking sleepy blue eyes in their direction, grinning around the hunk of fruit-flavored ice.

"Not punishin' m'self," he garbles out, and winces, gestures to his throat. He sniffs the air appreciatively and pads over to observe Elizabeth stirring a chopped carrot into the broth.

And Peter knows, knows that he should send Neal back upstairs to do his time – and he will, later – but for right now he doesn't. Because Neal's not punishing himself. Kate's dead and gone and Neal is alive and here, but his hands are steady and his eyes are bright, but dry. His mouth is red with popsicle, his teeth bright and white as he smiles at Peter, as he edges closer and closer until their shoulders are touching.

Peter puts down the knife. He lifts his hand and places it on the back of his boy's neck, thinking that maybe it won't always be this way, maybe just like with his illness, Neal will relapse into tears and shakes, but for now he is whole and functioning, sneaky and willing to take what he is given, to thieve what he's sure he's entitled to.

Neal tilts his head to the side, lets it keep falling until it's caught by Peter's shoulder. His skin is warm in the crook of Peter's neck. Peter snakes an arm around the kid's waist, pulls him in and lets him rest there. He's not sure if this moment is something he's giving, or something Neal's taking, but for the first time in the years since the chase began, it feels like it doesn't matter.

**Fin.**


End file.
